e--the Senora--would
attend to him. And was Sundown fond of the tortillas? He was, be
Gosh! It was well. They would have tortillas that evening. Chico
Miguel was especially fond of the tortillas. They made him of the
pleasant disposition and induced him to tune the big guitar.

The Senora would take her siesta. Possibly her guest would smoke and
entertain Anita with news from the Concho and of the Patron Loring and
of his own rancho. Anita was not of what you say the kind to do the
much talking, but she had a heart. Of that the Senora had reason to be
assured. Had not Anita gone, each day, to the gate and stood gazing
down the road? Surely there was nothing to see save the mesas. Had
she not begged to be allowed to visit the Loring hacienda not of so
very long time past? And Anita had not been to the Loring hacienda for
a year or more. Such things were significant. And the Senora gestured
toward her own bosom, implying that she of a surety knew from which
quarter the south wind blew.

All of which delighted the already joyous Sundown. He saw before him a
flower-bordered pathway to his happiness, and incidentally, as he gazed
down the pathway toward the gate of Chico Miguel's homestead, he saw
Anita standing pensively beneath the shade of an acacia, pulling a
flower to pieces and casting quick glances at the house. "Good-night,
Senora,--I mean--er--here's hopin' you have a good sleep. It sure is
refreshin' this hot weather." The Senora nodded and disappeared in the
bedroom. Sundown strode jingling down the pathway, a brave figure in
his glittering chaps and tinkling spurs. Anita's eyes were hidden
beneath her long black lashes. Perhaps she had anticipated something
of that which followed--perhaps she anticipated even more. In any
event, Sundown was not a disappointment. He asked her to sit beside
him beneath the acacia. Then he took her hand and squeezed it. "Let's
jest sit here and look out at them there mesas dancin' in the sun; and
say, 'Nita, let's jest say nothin' for a spell. I'm so right down
happy that suthin' hurts me throat."

When Chico Miguel returned in the dusk of evening, humming a song of
the herd, he was not a little surprised to find that Anita was absent.
He questioned the Senora, who smiled as she bustled about the table.
"Tortillas," she said, and was gratified at the change in Chico
Miguel's expression. Then she explained the presence of the broad new
Stetson that lay